


Not Alone

by nwspaprtaxis



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Assumptions, Bonding, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gen, Hurt James T. Kirk, Hurt/Comfort, Male-Female Friendship, Mistakes, Post-Movie(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-28
Updated: 2010-09-30
Packaged: 2017-11-23 09:42:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/620736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nwspaprtaxis/pseuds/nwspaprtaxis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>At the end of the millennium, you're not alone...</i> inspired by moogsthewriter's <i>By Any Other Name</i>; a continuation of <i>Part V: Tiberius</i>. A chance encounter reminds Kirk that he isn't alone in the universe...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [moogsthewriter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moogsthewriter/gifts).
  * Inspired by [By Any Other Name](https://archiveofourown.org/works/377743) by [moogsthewriter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moogsthewriter/pseuds/moogsthewriter). 



> _**A/N:**_ As a note, this fic picks up immediately where **moogsthewriter** 's vignette _Part V: Tiberius_ , under _By Any Other Name_ leaves off. I highly recommend reading that fantastic fic before moving on to this one since there is considerable overlap. This is an expansion of sorts upon the vignette and the events of _Tiberius_ weigh heavily in here. **moogsthewriter** 's Emma wouldn't leave me alone and she kindly let me adopt her character. Thus, this fic is dedicated to **moogsthewriter** because without her fic, permission, and awesome beta skills, I wouldn't have been haunted by Emma and this fic would have never been written.
> 
>  _ **Disclaimer:**_ Do not own. Am not making a profit. I'm just simply having fun with their psyches and returning them slightly more battered to Roddenberry, JJ Abrams, and whoever else holds the rights to the Star Trek reboot and all that Yada Yada. I don't even claim the rights to Emma or the setting - those belong solely to **moogsthewriter**. Additionally, the title and a portion of the summary comes from _What You Own_ from the musical _RENT_ \- which I don't own either.

Very little escapes Emma Wells. Even though she's seated at a corner table in the dark, shadowy bar, all attention on Grandad, she still notices the young starship captain slip out of the room. His exit is too quick, too abrupt, after their confrontation. She knows that Grandad inadvertently had upset him and that it is their fault he left the establishment. She swallows against the memory of the stricken horror that crossed James Tiberius Kirk's face. Mirroring her own feelings, it had only lasted a second—a bare heartbeat—before being masked over but it was there.

She lifts the beer bottle to her lips and takes a long, hard swig of the slightly-sweet brew, trying to forget. Even though she is, by Federation law, technically still underaged at seventeen, she's been coming here since she was nine, sneaking drinks since she was fifteen, and the locals always look the other way. She's not the only surviving Wells descendant for nothing.

She wishes she could take back that awful moment when Grandad spoke to Kirk, captain of the _Enterprise,_ the _Kelvin_ baby. There is almost nothing she wouldn't give to snatch back Grandad's words. There is more she wishes Grandad hadn't said, particularly in mistaking the young man for his grandfather, but it is the mention of George Kirk she wants to erase most of all. She swills the liquid around in the bottle. Still half-full. She glances over to Grandad and he is drinking his beer obliviously, his mind already forgotten the encounter. _Why couldn't life be like a datapad in which words could be obliterated from existence?_

Taking another pull on the bottle, she hazards a glance over her shoulder at the knot of people that had seemed to be his crew. One of them, the one who had whispered _Jim_ behind his captain, meets her gaze levelly, his dark eyes disapproving. She turns away, tensing. Despite the corner table, as far from the crew of the _USS Enterprise_ she can possibly be, she still feels their scrutiny. Without looking, she knows that the brown-haired man is still watching her; she can feel his eyes on her. She drains the remnant of her beer in one gulp, hoping the heady rush of alcohol would make it easier; she can't take much more of the suffocating bar atmosphere. It's too dark, too smoky, too heavy.

"Emma," Grandad says loudly, the volume of his voice making her flinch inwardly. This is why they come here: it is always too busy for anyone to notice a retired, aging First Officer running on the mouth. "You're too quiet."

"It's nothing, Grandad." She nearly shouts into his left ear and flashes him a too-bright, forced smile. He doesn't notice that it doesn't reach her eyes. He hasn't been able to pick up on nonverbal cues in over a year. "Just thinking."

"A girl like you shouldn't be thinkin' so much. You're too serious. You should be out with some young fella an' goin' to dances. Is that what you young people do these days—dances?"

Emma shrugs. Honestly, she doesn't have the foggiest clue what people her age do. This particular colony doesn't have the largest young adult population and, even if it did, she doesn't have the interest.

"That there Tiberius Kirk..." Grandad continues, shaking his head. "He's lookin' real good."

"That's because he wasn't Tiberius Kirk," Emma whispers to her empty beer bottle, too low for him to hear, but she does not correct him. There is no point anymore—the senility of dementia had cut into his consciousness too deeply. All that are left are his long-term memories. Soon, those will be gone too. Already, some days, when it's really bad, he mistakes her for his dead wife, even though she bears no physical resemblance to her grandmother except for her long, waist-length black hair. On some level, she supposes she should be grateful he even remembered Tiberius Kirk and that anecdote about the poker tournament, but it does nothing to mollify her humiliation.

She releases a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. "C'mon Grandad. It's getting late. You should be in bed. C'mon. I'll help you."

"But my beer's not done. And I want to see that Tiberius Kirk again," he half-yells petulantly.

"You've drunk enough, it's your third one and you know you shouldn't have that much. Not with all the medications in your system," Emma speaks into his ear, conscious of the fact that the people sitting at the next table can hear their every word. "If you're worried about wasting, I'll finish it." She eases the bottle from Grandad's loose grip and finds that it is nearly three-quarters full. She downs the contents within five minutes, grateful that it is stronger than the Blackberry Ale she usually orders, sputtering at the burn in the back of her throat as she sets the bottle back on the table.

"Ready?" she asks in a near-shout, mouth close to his ear.

He bobs his head several times as she closes her hand around his triceps, the muscles atrophied and limp with age, and lifts him gently to his feet, steadying him. He staggers and she knows that he's had a little too much to drink. Wordlessly, she wraps an arm around his waist, bearing the brunt of his weight, holding him up, and escorts him out of the bar.

**::: ::: :::**

Legs aching, lungs burning, his body screams at him to slow down, but Jim Kirk ignores it, running faster. Bones is going to give him hell later for forcing himself to the extreme like this, but at the moment he frankly doesn't give a damn. All he wants is to get as far away as he possibly can. It's shore leave and he knows that his crew had been looking forward to getting off the ship—it was all they could talk about for weeks, so leaving immediately at Warp Three is not an option. _Shore Leave and of all the outer colonies and bars they could've visited in the entire godforsaken universe..._ He shoves the thought away.

Cursing silently, Kirk pushes himself even harder, blazing a track through the snow-covered forest trail. At least here, unlike on the _Enterprise_ , he can run however far he needs to. Speed alone is not enough—physical distance matters, too. The old man's voice echoes endlessly in his head, words beating in cadence with every pound of his boots on the path, until he wants to scream: _So how is that son of yours?_

No matter what he does, no matter how hard he tries, no matter where he goes in the galaxies, he can't ever escape his past. His father's legacy hangs heavily over his head. He wishes he wasn't born in a _Kelvin_ escape shuttle. He wishes his father hadn't died, that George Kirk, hero-captain for twelve minutes, wasn't his father. That someone else had his karma or fate or whatever the shit it was that Nero had mucked up. He wishes that whatever Old Spock had told him was his reality; that he'd been born on an Iowa farm and had known his father for years...

But, that's all they are: _Wishes_. And because he knows that none of them will ever come true and he can't do a damn thing to change anything, he runs.

Part of him still wants to swagger into the shadiest bar or alley he can find and deliberately provoke the biggest, meanest thug to a fistfight. The delinquent in him still wants to punch out his rage and pain, not caring if he lost, not caring how bloodied or hurt he'd be later, because it was never a matter of winning—not even back in Iowa as a teenager. It was always about the fight.

But he is a Starship Captain now, the commander of hundreds, an ambassador and representative of Starfleet and the Federation, not a half-drunk, brawling farm boy from a dead-end town in the middle of some cornfields with absolutely no prospects other than being an entry-level mechanic or, if he's ridiculously lucky, engineer.

If it wasn't for an incredible turn of events, the intervention of someone who gave a damn, he'd have been a manual laborer for Starfleet, building their Starships at Riverside Shipyards, forced to remain content with only gazing at the stars through the hazy atmosphere of Earth, never going beyond the Iowa state line. Even then, he knows that even that future would've been pushing the limits with the type of record he would've had if Pike hadn't challenged him. Hadn't _dared_ him. So he runs until his heart feels like it's bursting in his chest and his knees give out from underneath him and hopes that it would be enough this time, but he is not naïve or stupid enough to believe for a minute that he can ever outdistance his father and the _USS Kelvin_.

**::: ::: :::**

Emma helps Grandad up the narrow wooden steps to their tiny apartment above the general store. His steps are slow, uncertain, and he grips the banister tightly. She presses her body closer to his, lending him support and stability. When they reach the top landing, she lets go of his shirt momentarily, reaches out and twists the doorknob, opening the door.

Inside, the apartment is small, sparsely furnished. The dark room lit by smoky gas lamps. Emma expertly maneuvers them through the larger room into a small bedroom. She eases Grandad onto the edge of the straw-stuffed mattress and gently eases off his clothes, undressing him. She knows that the Orion nurse they've hired could do it, but this is their ritual. One of the last ties he has to her. Or maybe it's the other way around. Either way, she wouldn't trade these moments of lucidity for anything in the universe.

"Tiberius…" he protests quietly, eyes confused and pleading, the event already half-forgotten and fading away. She knows he knows it because she can see the familiar fear slip through his expression.

"Shhh," Emma presses her forefinger to his lips for a brief second before slipping his nightshirt, worn butter-soft from countless washings, over his head and tugging it down. "It's all right. You can see him tomorrow," she lies, swallowing hard around the final word. She knows that, come morning, he will have no memory of ever meeting Tiberius Kirk or, to be more accurate, Tiberius Kirk's grandson, in the local bar and, with any luck, the younger Kirk will be far, far away from here. She pastes on a bright smile, her stomach clenching, as she pushes him back onto the bed, pulling the thick handmade quilt to his chin. "It's okay. It'll be okay. Tomorrow you can properly introduce us. He seems like quite the guy and I'd love to hear more about his adventures. And, like someone I know, still has his looks." She leans forward and kisses him on the cheek. "I love you Grandad."

"Stay," he whispers, closing his hand around hers in a viselike grip.

Emma nods. She knows that he hates falling asleep alone. "I'm not going anywhere. I'm staying right here." She sits on the edge of the bed and, within minutes, his breathing evens out and his grip slackens. "I love you," she repeats as she presses her lips again to the papery skin stretched across his cheekbone.

"He's asleep?" the emerald-skinned Orion nurse turns from the stove where there is something boiling. It smells sweetly pungent, obviously a soup of some sort, something that her mother would've made.

Emma nods, tears smarting the back of her eyes.

"Is there something wrong, Emma?" the Orion takes several steps towards her.

Emma pulls back. "Oh, no. No. Nothing's wrong. Everything's fine..." her voice sounds oddly high and strained, even to her own ears and she knows she is about to break down into tears. And Wellses don't _do_ tears. In fact, she can't remember ever crying. Not even when… "I'm going out for a run," she manages to say, slipping into the large closet that serves as her bedroom.

In the privacy of her room, she strips herself of the tight-fitting leather pants and loose cotton tunic. With jerky, rushed movements, she pulls on a pair of gray sweatpants and a sky-blue Starfleet-issued medical jersey. She presses her nose to the fabric at her shoulder, searching for the old, familiar, scent. But, like everything else, it's faded over time. _Time heals all wounds_. Jamming her feet into worn running sneakers, long since molded to the shape of her feet, not bothering to lace them, she bolts from the room and shoulders past the Orion, too close to a breaking point. "I'll be back in a couple hours. Don't bother waiting up," she tosses over her shoulder, her voice thick.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _At the end of the millennium, you're not alone_ inspired by moogsthewriter's _By Any Other Name_ ; a continuation of _Part V: Tiberius_. A chance encounter reminds Kirk that he isn't alone in the universe...

"Dammit!" Jim curses as he trips and faceplants in the cold, icy snow, his breath coming in hard, rapid gasps, searing his throat as his lungs struggle to keep up with the beating of his heart and to replenish his exhausted muscles with much-needed oxygen. "WHY?" he screams hoarsely at the trees lining the path, hands curling into fists.

He hears pounding footsteps slowing into a walk behind him. He brushes snow from his face as he cranes his neck to see who's crazy enough to chase after him. _Bones, probably_ , he thinks, but he isn't in the mood to talk to anyone. He bites back a groan when he sees it's the girl from the bar. The one who was with the old man.

"Are you okay?" She asks, pulling to a halt besides him, brushing her waist-length black hair over her shoulder, out of her way.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just leave me alone," he tells her, waving his hand vaguely over his head, dismissing her. He drops his face back into the snow, hoping she'd get the message. When her feet don't immediately move from his line of sight, he lifts his head again.

"You sure?" She raises her eyebrow skeptically. Her voice gentles, "Let me help you up, at any rate."

"Why?" Kirk retorts sharply. "So you can rub that bit about the _Kelvin_ in my face?"

"No," she says softly, her fair skin flushing scarlet. "So I can apologize. I am sorrier than you will ever know for tonight." She extends her hand, offering assistance. "My name is Emma Wells."

He doesn't offer his name as he takes her hand, knowing that she is fully aware of who he is. And it is then he notices that she's wearing a blue Starfleet uniform shirt. It's the same shade as the one Bones wears but it's a different cut, one he's unfamiliar with. Or at least it doesn't quite match up to the current style. And it looks wrong on her, somehow, as though she hasn't really grown into it yet, as though she doesn't really _own_ it. He controls his surprise and allows her to pull him to his feet.

The minute he puts weight on his left ankle, he knows it is a mistake. He gasps and his leg buckles from beneath him. The girl at his side is stronger than he expects and she prevents him from making acquaintance with the snow again. "Put your weight on your other leg… I've got you," he hears the strain behind her voice. He does so, adjusting himself so minimal weight is on his injured side, but he's not crushing her with his dead weight either. Leaning slightly on her for stability, he limps his way to a fallen tree by the path and sits on it, hissing at the sharp throb.

Wincing in sympathy, Emma crouches before him. "Maybe you'd better let me look at it."

"No, no, no. It's fine… It doesn't hurt." Jim shakes his head. "Besides my CMO is on leave too… he'll take care of it. Just leave it be. It'll be all right. Just turned it. I'll be fine—just need a minute."

"Uh uh." Emma rolls her eyes. "Right. And why were you running in Starfleet-issued boots, Captain?"

Kirk smirks at her. "Well, I wasn't really planning on being mistaken for my dead grandfather." The words are spoken softly, challengingly, a low blow.

Emma doesn't rise to the bait. Instead, she ducks her head in shame, her bangs concealing her eyes. "I'm so sorry about that. I wish I could take it back. I'd give anything to take it back."

"Well, you can't." And the moment he says them, Kirk regrets his sharp tone. He knows it's not the girl's fault. That it was her old man who had said the words. But he can't stop himself from the verbal attack.

"No. I can't."

He's impressed with the silent, resigned way she accepts his blow. _It's almost as though she_ expects _it. As though she's used to it_.

Wordlessly, she drops to her knees, ignoring the snow soaking into the fabric of her sweatpants. Expertly, she slides her hand to the inside of his calf and unzips the knee-high boot and slips it off. Her movements are careful, tender, as though she had done this countless times before. Kirk demurs a word of protest, but she disregards his token objection. And Kirk doesn't bother fighting her. His ankle is killing him, the pulsating waves intensifying with each passing minute. Lord only knows when Bones would decide to come after his hide. And he's so freaking exhausted, from the weeks of missions and protocols in space and from his exertion. Kirk looks down and sees that she had already pushed up his pants leg and pulled his sock below the heel. His ankle is already rapidly swelling, the skin tight and bruised-looking.

The girl doesn't say anything as she eases the sock back over his ankle and begins to pack snow around the sprained appendage, the icy cold making him irritable.

"I wish I didn't have such a fucking albatross," Kirk lashes out at her, voice cracking, hating the wet sound of tears behind his words, but he's too tired, too sore to keep them at bay.

"I know," Emma says softly, matter-of-factly, dusting the snow from her hands and knees as she settles besides him on the log, not touching him.

She sits there, a few inches away, but for all the physical contact she offers, they might as well be light years apart, communicating through holovid. For that, he is grateful.

"Tell me about it." She sighs and he can hear sorrow there.

"You too?" he whispers with surprise and shock, turning to her. Her face is lowered, her long, black hair spilling over one shoulder, concealing her expression.

She nods. "Me." She turns to him, tears in her dark brown eyes, eyelashes spiky. "Do you remember my grandfather saying that my parents are out gallivanting on some starship?" Her voice chokes over the last words, fracturing the syllables.

He nods uncertainly.

"He wasn't quite right." She sucks in a deep, sharp breath, pushes her bangs to one side. "They did work on a starship. Daddy was in Engineering and Mama was in Medical. And they did gallivantize in space. It was where I was conceived…"

Jim watches her, waiting. He's not really sure where she's going with her this, why she's speaking in past tense. Her words are flat, dull, as though she is trying to detach herself from something painful. It's the identical tone he uses whenever he has to talk about the _Kelvin_. _It takes one to know one_. At the same time, he gets the sense that she needs to talk. So he lets her.

Emma swallows and stares out through the trees as though the answer is there. "It wasn't the _Kelvin_ ," she tells him and he feels oddly relieved. "I'm not exactly sure what happened, Grandad'd know, if he could remember. I was nine. From what I understand, both of them were issued to go with an away team on diplomatic mission with some Klingons…" She swipes her blue sleeve angrily across her eyes, exhaling sharply, her breath clouding before her. "And they didn't make it. No one on the away team returned. Diplomatic relations were dissolved and the Klingons let the ship go. Or something like that. I'm not sure. At least, everyone on the ship lived."

 _An away mission gone bad…_ Kirk feels something tighten in his chest. It is his worst nightmare as Captain. Worse, even, than sacrificing his life in a virtual no-win situation to save his crew. At least, in that scenario, he doesn't have to stand helplessly by, watching those under his command die for something he has absolutely no control over. Something about her words sound vaguely familiar, as though as he heard it before in an Academy command-track course regarding diplomatic relations. "What was the name of the ship?" The question slips out before he can stop himself and he wants to shove the words back into his mouth.

"I don't remember," her answer comes much too quickly, her voice blunt, harsh.

 _Bullshit,_ he thinks without venom, but he doesn't press her. _She probably has the damn registration number and starship code memorized to boot_. The same way he can practically call up the structural specifications and alphanumerical identifications of the _Kelvin_ in his sleep.

She exhales again, turning to him again, tears flowing freely over her cheeks. "So, see, you aren't the only one. You're not alone." She smiles tremulously.

"No." He impulsively reaches out, cradling her wet face between his palms. He leans closer, sliding his left hand to the back of her head, entangling his fingers in her hair, tilting her head forward, and presses his lips against her forehead. The kiss is closemouthed, chaste, one that he would have given a sister if he had one. " _We're_ not alone," he corrects, pulling away.

She gasps at the release of contact, her breath coming in rapid, harsh gasps, puffing faintly in the cold. She wasn't sure what she was expecting, but it certainly wasn't _that_ —to be kissed by one of the most handsome starship captains in the galaxy.

Kirk deliberately overlooks her stunned shock, looking straight ahead into the trees as though nothing had happened, enjoying the moment of silent companionship. He blows his breath out softly, watching it plume densely. He shivers slightly, teeth beginning to chatter.

"W-we should head back," Emma says quietly, hesitant to break the calm. "Everyone will be wondering what happened to us…"

Kirk nods. "Yeah. We should." He doesn't tell her, but frankly he's surprised that his best friend still hasn't come after his ass yet. "It's getting cold."

Emma rises from her seat and crouches in front of him again, "How is it?"

He exhales experimentally as he eases his numb foot out of the snow, wincing as he rotates the ankle. It doesn't really hurt all that much. It's more of a dull throb and he thinks he can put weight on it. "Better. Or at least I can't feel it," he tells her. "But I think it's okay… Just twisted."

"It doesn't seem as swollen, but you really should get it checked out." She hands him his boot and doesn't miss the wince as he zips the tight leather to his knee. "C'mon, let's go back."

"I will. Don't worry." Kirk says, taking her proffered hand and hauls himself slowly to his feet, tentatively placing his ankle on the ground. It throbs sharply, but the pain is not excruciating and the ankle holds. He releases a breath of relief.

Together they walk back through the woods, Emma slowing her pace to match Kirk's hitching gait. Even though he can walk under his own steam and refuses her assistance, he still favors the ankle, weight on toes. After a while, Emma finds herself walking slower and slower.

"How much further?" Kirk says after a long stretch of silence, trying to keep the whine out of his voice.

Emma halts her steps, a few paces in front of him, and doubles back. "Not too bad. We're little less than halfway back to the town. Why? You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. It's no big deal… just sore." He winces slightly, shifting his weight.

"C'mon, I'll help you," she tells him. "We'll move a bit quicker at any rate."

She seizes his upper arm in her hand, and even though her fingers don't reach all the way around his biceps, she still has a sturdy enough grip. Kirk exhales as she provides him with some support, helping him balance his weight off his foot.

The girl's strength surprises him again and it must've shown in his face because her next words are whispered into his ear: "I'm used to this. My Grandad can't make it up the stairs to our house unless I'm there to help him. Not to mention he's usually drunk to some degree."

"Wasn't he the one who thought I was my grandfather?"

Emma nods, doesn't say anything.

A couple moments later, she exhales. "It wasn't all his fault. He..." she inhales sharply. "He has severe dementia. Some days he doesn't recognize me… Pretty soon..." She trails off.

"I'm sorry."

"Yeah. So'm I. He's all I've got left."

She halts, readjusts her grip on him, and is about to recommence moving when she sees a shadow moving swiftly through the trees towards them. She tugs at Kirk, pulling him out of the way as the figure comes into focus.

"Wait. It's okay. It's my CMO," Kirk pulls at her arm, making her stop just as the dark-haired, blue shirted man she saw glowering at her in the bar reaches them.

"What did you do to him? Haven't you done enough?" He growls at Emma, making her recoil slightly.

"Bones, chill," Kirk snaps. "It wasn't her fault. Besides, she helped me when I twisted my ankle. Lay off. It wasn't her who made the mistake."

The CMO has the good grace to look slightly ashamed.

Kirk breaks into a grin. "Emma, meet Bones McCoy, McCoy, Miss Emma Wells, a local here who found it in the kindness of her heart to put snow on my ankle."

Emma sticks out her hand. "Pleased to meet you."

McCoy returns her handshake. "I'm sorry about my reaction..." His brow furrows as he takes stock of their proximity. "Are you holding him up?" he asks, but before either of them can answer, McCoy reaches out, and pulls one of Kirk's arm across his shoulders, providing support, making Kirk grunt and then exhale in relief as he lifts his foot from the ground.

"Thank you," McCoy mumbles and then turning to his Captain, he spits out acerbically, "You idiot, what the hell were you thinking running in those boots? You're lucky you didn't break your neck."

"Bones, not now, please," Kirk's voice is quiet, his gaze cast down on the snow beneath their feet. "Later. I'll explain it all later."

Emma blinks at the two men, feeling as though she had been forgotten. She hugs herself against the cold. "Well, I'd better get going."

Kirk's gaze snaps to her. "How would you like to see the _'Prise_?"

Emma gasps slightly, pales. "I couldn't… I don't..."

"You don't have to go in, I promise," Kirk continues softly, soothing. "Just… do you want to see it?"

Emma nods tentatively. "Yeah… I'd like that."

They make their way slowly through the wood until they reach a clearing, walking in companionable silence. Emma hears Kirk whisper something unintelligible to McCoy and the older man steps back into the shadow of the pine trees, allowing the two of them to continue in privacy.

"There she is," Kirk whispers reverently. He points up and, in the center of a circle of starry night sky, the points of the pine trees reaching up towards it, there's a massive silver ship hovering just beyond the thermosphere of her planet. "Usually you can't see it half as well, but your loading dock is so close to the planet's surface and your atmosphere is so clear..." he trails off. "She's a beauty, isn't she?"

Emma can only nod in stunned silence, head thrown back in wonder. _Beauty_ doesn't even begin to cover the saucer-shaped structure. She feels Kirk squeeze her hand in silent understanding.

She turns to him, tears slipping silently. "Thank you," she croaks. "I… I love it. It's gorgeous… But..."

Lowering her head, she swallows hard before meeting Kirk's eyes.

He holds her gaze and then abruptly releases her hand. "But, you can't go. I understand. Bones and I have to beam up, we're leaving in the morning for our next mission. This was just a temporary Shore Leave."

Emma nods again, unable to speak, and is the first to break eye contact, toeing her sneaker into the clumps of packed snow.

"Hey, look at me." She snaps up at Kirk's words. He's studying her, his scrutiny intense but compassionate. "Anything happens, no matter what, you need someone, call Starfleet and have them put you through to me. Tell them you're a friend of James T. Kirk. I'll take care of the rest. All right? If you need anyone, for any reason, give Starfleet a call and I'll answer no matter what. No one should be alone."

Emma exhales.

"Starfleet'll connect you to wherever I am and I'll come if necessary. Okay? Promise me you'll call?"

"I promise," Emma croaks.

Kirk wavers on his feet and McCoy suddenly materializes besides him as though he was waiting for such a cue.

"We need to go, now."

Kirk nods and pulls out his communicator. "Two to beam up, Scotty," he says as he pivots and takes several steps deeper into the clearing, leaning heavily on McCoy.

"Wait!" Emma calls out to their backs.

The two men turn.

"It was the _Albatross_ ," she says quietly. When she sees the young captain's puzzled expression, she clarifies, "The ship my parents were on… It was the _USS Albatross_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _**A/N2:**_ The _albatross_ Kirk refers to is a nod to the Samuel Taylor Coleridge's poem, _Rhime of the Ancient Mariner_.


End file.
